Hopelessly Human
by Amarintha
Summary: In essence, just a story about John and his boys. No hunts -so far- just the average trials and tribulations a parent faces, compounded by the painful knowledge of what is truly out there.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: For L, and as always, thanks to Mish.  
_

**Hopelessly Human**

**Chapter One:**

_It's a strange sensation, this brainstorm of youth_

_Though it's lost in translation from fancy to truth_

Dean snuffled, turning on his side and pushing his face against his father's ribs. Sam on the other side, managed to angle himself perpendicular to the bed, feet digging into John's side. John groaned, shifting and rolling away from Dean to shift Sam on a vertical, so he'd have his head back on the pillow. God knows how the little rat managed to sleep with his head hanging on the edge, but John didn't need him falling off and breaking his pencil neck. Then he rolled back and put an arm around his eldest, feeling Dean shudder in his sleep again. The soft sniffs and shivers spoke more eloquently than any words Dean wasn't saying. Kid wouldn't talk to anyone, and any stranger came up and Dean's face was pushed into the back of John's knee. Sam was small, a full year old, and a pain in the ass. Dean wouldn't talk to anyone or look at them. John knew legally Dean needed to be in kindergarten, and that home schooling wasn't going to work very well because things just didn't work that way, but Dean refused to talk to anyone, look at them, or anything.

The most he'd done since Mary's death was curl into Pastor Jim's arms when he was asleep. Almost shouldn't count, considering when he woke up he'd almost had a panic attack, and Jim'd had to shove Dean back into John's arms while trying to take Sam at the same time. "Damnit son," John muttered, rubbing Dean's back a little, then stroking his hair. Sam squirmed again like a little weasel, managing to arrange himself so his feet were shoving against John's back, digging into the softer flesh lacking the protective ring of ribs. Unable to take it anymore, John picked Dean up and slipped out of bed, carefully shifting Sammy again so he'd stay on the bed. Pain in the ass little kid. John loved his boys, but he was tired, and he couldn't take the silence. What happened to the kid who wanted to go throw the football –even though it was bigger than he was, well, maybe not quite, but close enough. The one who chattered about every single damn thing he could think of, begging Mary to read to him. Wanted to know about this, and more importantly, never shut the hell up about every single thing Sam did. John'd been ready to choke him out, but the silence, it was so much worse.

Settling into an overstuffed arm chair, or maybe it had been overstuffed until rats and roaches got into it and stole all the stuffing, John heard it creak and prayed –as always, that the damn chair wouldn't break. Because if Dean woke up he'd be upset to have his Dad holding him like he was a 'baby' and would act even weirder. Wishing they still had a rocking chair, John hummed as best he could, knowing he couldn't hit a note to save his soul, but he'd learned when Dean was a baby that it didn't matter if he was on key so long as the notes were low. And he could do that, it was the rumbling that settled his boy. Dean quieted in his arms, snuffling again as he pushed his face into John's flannel shirt, little hands twisting into the fabric, and John winced when he lost a few chest hairs, too, feeling his eyes water. Trying to untangle Dean's fingers from his shirt so that he didn't have to lose more, Dean fussed in his sleep, starting to get restless. John started the humming again, and figured that people paid good money to have hair waxed off their bodies, and here his five year old son was taking care of it for free, in his sleep to boot. Wincing when Dean's hands fisted tighter, John stood up, rocking Dean in his arms. God he was exhausted. Sammy should be in a crib, mainly because he was a goddamn danger to himself and others in his sleep. Dean curled up in his sleep, or snuggled up. Like when he'd had nightmares, and Mary'd lift him into bed between them, and he'd curl up against her, and sometimes John slipped an arm over them both, Dean conforming so that his father could fit comfortably along side them and still hold into Mary. It was just how Dean was. Although he'd been plenty full of life, too. But, he also tended to make things easier. He'd been an easy baby, pretty happy up until every couple weeks he had some sort of bizarre temper tantrum that turned into a knock down drag out fight where John was scared he was going to kill himself, flailing around like that on the floor shrieking his head off for no reason. Mary had just said that he could do it all the time, or he could cry all the time, so the once every three week meltdown was fine, and like clockwork. They knew when to expect, and how to handle it.

Mary had teased that Dean just saved up all the 'evil' for the weekend John was most exhausted, so he knew what it was like to be a mother for a couple hours. John still didn't really appreciate that. He worked hard, damnit. Although, it was funny enough, he supposed. Dean's face seemed pale and wan, especially in the darkness. Where'd that spark gone? The one that kept him asking 'why does " insert obnoxious and pointless question here. Kissing his son's forehead, he settled his little boy back onto the bed. "Hope you have better luck than me, kiddo," John mumbled, walking over to the fridge for a beer.

Hopefully Sam wouldn't kick the crap out of his brother and wake him up. Little kid was like a friggin' tornado in his sleep. Damn shame he wasn't like that awake. Cried all the time. John figured he preferred the meltdowns. Drop of a pin, and there Sam was bawling his eyes out, Dean shushing him and trying to make him be quiet. Trying so hard, but never saying a word. Picking Sammy up, holding him. Killed John a little, but he did what he had to, and Dean, he needed something to connect to. Something to hold onto, because apparently his own father wasn't good enough. _I need you, too, Dean. I need you to ask me questions until I get a headache, I need you to start playing with hotwheels again, crashing them all over the place, and leaving them out so I step on them and yell at you. Need you to ask me to read you your favorite books about cars and trains, and Godzilla, your favorite fairy tales and ask me to read you books you can't possibly understand, but we both know you just like it when I read to you. Damnit Dean, come back to me, kiddo._

He heard Dean's soft whining sound and knew Sam had managed to either shove his feet into Dean's belly, or had managed to start edging his brother off the bed. Next time maybe he'd have enough money to get a bed and a crib. Keep Sam contained in a cage where he belonged. Heard the soft thump and knew Dean had either decided to roll onto the floor, or Sam had forced him off the bed.

Slugging down a cold one, he got up, and saw Dean had a pillow, and a blanket, and was fine on the ground. "Mind if I join you there, buddy?" John asked. Dean just stared. "Can't take another kick to the kidneys." Or the balls. That was when John first knew he was going to have trouble with his youngest son.

John had stopped bothering to change out of his clothes to sleep for a long time. Generally he just slept in what he was wearing so long as nothing supernatural happened to be covering it. Curling up with Dean, the boy started to roll over, back to back, before John slipped an arm around his middle, tugging him closer. "Your old man gets cold easy, okay? You mind? Sam's got a hell of a roundhouse there in his sleep. Otherwise I'd curl up with him." Dean smiled faintly, tugging on the blanket until John lifted his arm up off of it, and tugged it around his shoulder. "Here, c'mere," he said softly, and Dean snuggled up to him. Poor kid was just getting over a nasty cold. Fortunately it was more that he was stuffed up and couldn't breathe over being some sort of snot ridden pain in the ass. Although the dry cough worried John, because it sounded horrible. But Dean was almost fine now; he just snuffled sometimes and snored softly in his sleep. Or ended up with his mouth open. Which meant drool on the pillow, but John could live with that.

"Mom!?"

John opened his eyes, having finally drifted off to sleep, it was almost daylight. Dean was sitting up, both hands over his mouth, tears running over his cheeks and onto the backs of his hands while his shoulders shook. It was the first time John'd see his boy cry since before Mary's death. "Hey," he said gently, trying to ignore the fear in his eldest's eyes when he spoke. "C'mere son, I'm here." He knew it wasn't as good as Mary. Lord knows when Dean was a baby he'd squall till he was blue in the face for his momma. John could never get him to calm down for more than a few seconds, but Mary, all she had to do was walk into the room like the angel she was, and Dean was fine. Eyes perfectly round with chubby little arms reaching out for her. He held the little boy while he cried, wishing he could help heal the hurts, but he knew his ran just as deep just as open, and just as empty. Sam slept on, thankfully. John wasn't sure he could handle both boys bawling. But Dean was quiet, he was always quiet.

"Hey, how about we hit the comic store tomorrow, you've been missing a few months worth of Spideys, now haven't you?" Dean nodded, pulling away to look at him warily. "What?" Dean just said nothing. Never did. "You like Batman better now?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. He'd forgotten. "Thought you still liked Spider-Man," John said, watching Dean shrug spindly shoulders. Kid'd thinned out, and not in a good way. He kept trying to make him eat, but often as not Dean just puked it back up before going to bed early. Didn't know how to cope with it. John figured it was shell shock. Soldier's Heart. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He tried to cope. Looked things up in books. None of it worked. Dean just wanted his mom.

"You ever gonna talk to me again, Dean?" his boy shrugged, he didn't know. "What about Sammy? You ever gonna talk to him? Who's gonna teach him to read, huh? We both know I tricked your Mom, telling her I knew how, but lucky us you learned somewhere." He could feel Dean smile against his chest. Stroking his son's soft hair, he sighed. Dean heaved a tiny sigh, too, before snuggling his face into John's flannel shirt. And he was awake doing it. Knowing he'd made some headway, "C'mon let's get some sleep," he said, lying down and letting Dean keep his head pillowed on his chest. Pulling the blanket up over them, John slept deeply, only waking when Dean was trying to slip free of his arms to turn the alarm off before it woke Sammy and his father.

"S'okay Dean, I got it," John mumbled, trying to wake himself up as he turned the alarm off. Glancing at the day, he didn't have to work. At least not until quite a ways later. Ruffling Dean's hair gently, John laid back down, pressing his face into the pillow. He held his arm up so Dean could crawl under it and snuggle closer. They slept until Sam woke up, squalling. Groaning, John slipped away from Dean, trying to let the boy sleep, as he lifted up Sam and shushed him, walking to the small creaky yellowed fridge before pulling out a bottle of milk for the little pain in the ass. "G'morning to you too, Sam," John said, kissing his forehead when he quieted, busy with the bottle. He could hear the soft wheezing breaths that were his other son's, and he figured some cold medicine wouldn't go amiss. Once the poor kid woke up, at least.

Then a trip down to the comic store, and if the Farmer's Market was open, there might be some fresh produce nice and cheap, and maybe a treat or two for the boys. And himself. Been a while since he'd had anything that tasted good, and couldn't imagine how Dean felt. Then again he never said anything, so it hardly mattered. But he knew it did. John cared desperately about Dean's welfare. Sam was fine when he wasn't crying. So, John did his damndest to keep Sam from crying. Or to stop him when he started. Hell if Dean would just cry, that would make things so much easier, but…he was just silent. Always silent.

When both boys were up, dressed, and fed, John loaded them into the Impala. He'd forced himself to have some eggs, Dean had looked at him funny when he'd been cooking them, and sighed to find out they didn't taste so great. The boy had always watched Mary cook, he had a fascination with food. So clearly he knew something his dad didn't, and hadn't bothered to speak up. But with some coffee John was able to swallow it down. You never wasted food. Ever. Especially when he had to work so damn hard to get so little. Not like before when his job had paid well and he'd had a nice house, a wife, and plenty of good food to put on the table.

John got some weird looks in the comic book store, a single Dad with his son and a baby in his arms. He hated those looks. Hated the way people were always watching him like he was going to do something wrong or start abusing his children in the middle of the store. Just because he was a father, and not a mother. Hell, it was a comic book store, he should seem normal. Women as a stereotype didn't come into comic book stores. "Dean go ahead, find all the ones you're missing," John told him. They weren't too expensive. And he had some extra money, and it would do the kid some good, he hoped. Disappearing, it was like the kid had his own GPS system for just about everything. Never got lost, always knew where everyone else was, and always instinctively seemed to know where things were in stores he'd never been in. Drove John insane. Especially when he got lost coming back from a hunt and ended up leaving his boys alone longer than he wanted.

Following Dean to the kid's Batman comics, he watched his son pick them out carefully, turning a few pages just to make sure, holding the comics just so in his little hands. Didn't want to damage them. "These ones?" Dean nodded. John sighed. "Can you just say yes or no for me, please buddy?" he crouched down until he was eyelevel with the boy. "Your mom wouldn't like this, Dean. You gotta start talking again, okay bud? She liked when you asked all your questions, and how're you supposed to learn anything, huh? You gotta start talking for me. Just yes or no answers are okay, just talk to me." Dean nodded again, before catching himself. "Dean, that's an order." Scrubbing his free hand through his hair, he'd never said that to Dean in all seriousness before. Mary had told him that he wasn't supposed to do things like that to their son. Her boy wasn't a soldier, and he wasn't going to act like a miniature one just because his father missed the core sometimes.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, hands trembling on the thin covers.

"Let's buy those and then go wander the market stands, okay?" sometimes they sold toys and art and other trinket type things. It was a real cultural scene, and sometimes there was a rare live musician hoping for people to toss things in his hat or instrument case. But a lot of artist flocked around the market. Heaving Dean onto his other hip, he kissed his son's forehead. "Hang on tight okay?" he said, feeling a little like a horse when bony knees pressed into his sides. Considering he needed one hand free to buy the comics. Hating the way the man behind the counter looked at him, John looked at Sam, fine. Eyes wide open and soaking up the sights. Curious little bugger. Dean took the bag from the cashier without a word, and then pressed his face into John's shoulder. He hated strangers. Walking out of the store John strode quickly across the street, smiling a little at all the stands of bright white tents. "Here, walk a little," he said, letting Dean slide down his hip to walk at his side. Shifting Sam to the other arm, John switched sides with Dean to hold his hand. "Can't wait until your brother can walk," he added, seeing a faint smile twist his boy's lips. They wandered around for a while, until Dean started showing an interest in some of the food. Pointing, he dragged John over to a stall selling fresh fruit. Strawberries. John waited for Dean to say something. He knew he had to force this.

"Please?"

"Alright, what'd you want?" John asked with an easy smile, grateful for Dean's compliance. The vendor, the stereotypical gray frizzy haired gardener smiled, and sliced up a strawberry.

"You want some?" she asked Dean, coming around her table to crouch down so she was less threatening. John approved that she was quiet with his son, and gentle. The kid hated strangers, and he backed into his dad a little, but nodded. John lightly nudged him with his knee.

"Yeah," he said quietly, eyes on the ground. She held out a slice to him, and he took it carefully. Looking up at his dad for permission, which he got, he popped it into his mouth, closing his eyes in appreciation.

"I grow them myself, y'know," she told him easily. His bright green eyes focused on her face, losing some of his shyness. Shrugging a little, he looked up at John again.

"How much you recommend I get for this little fella?" John asked. He had no idea how to shop for groceries. Especially since most strawberries came in little plastic boxes. She smiled, packing up a small paper bag gently, and handing it to Dean.

"Don't squish them, okay?" Dean nodded, his green eyes serious. Money was passed over his head, and John smiled at his boy. Sam was awake all the way, and making noise like he always did. Babbling and playing with John's collar. Which was fine. If he wouldn't put the keys in his mouth, John would have handed them over as a toy. That might be something he could do for Sam, find something safe for him to play with. Although it would be one more thing for the little bug to fling across the room that he or Dean would have to go pick up and return like a game of fetch. It should be something soft and cuddly that hopefully Sammy wouldn't want to throw, or he'd go get it himself. He could crawl fine, and was working on walking. "Help me find something for your brother, okay?" John asked, Dean nodded.

John let it slide that he didn't answer this time. Letting Dean drag him to a far corner, he knew his son's instincts were always right. Several booths of homemade toys and stuffed animals and other textile works dominated the area. Dean searched through several toys, strawberries and comic books clutched carefully to his chest. After a long time, Dean selected a stuffed pig, it wasn't very big, but it was big enough Sammy couldn't eat it. Glancing at it, he looked at Sam, calculating, before selecting a different animal. Eventually he decided on a gangly armed stuffed monkey. After seriously considering a fluffy sheep, but he wasn't sure how he felt about the soft wool, and didn't want Sam to pull it out and eat it. The monkey was softly furred, with a brightly colored knitted belly, the bottoms of its feet matching, along with the pads on its little monkey hands. Dean liked it because it was smiling. Glancing at his father, he offered it to Sam, who abandoned John's shirt in favor of the stuffed animal. Playing with it, he hugged it to his chest, snuggling into John's shoulder. "Guess you picked right, huh?" John asked with a laugh, purchasing the monkey. "Anything you want?"

"No," Dean said quietly, almost sounding guilty. Toeing the ground, he was carefully holding the strawberries and comics, treating them like spun glass. John shrugged a little.

"You want to go back?"

"No."

"Can you tell me what you do want?" John asked, crouching down and letting Sammy stand up on his own for a little, considering his arms were starting to ache after holding the baby for the better part of the day.

"Explore," he said, refusing to meet his father's eyes.

"That's fine. How about I hold that stuff, and you hold your brother's hands for a bit?" Dean nodded, and they switched burdens. Dean helped Sam toddle around, his green eyes absorbing everything. He avoided anyone and everyone who looked at him and John found himself moving like some sort of bodyguard for his son, sighing a little when he noticed his behavior earning them some odd looks. Lightly resting his hand on Dean's head for a few steps, he carded his fingers through the short brown hair. They explored without mishap, and lunch became some ice cream, and a little bit for Sam, too. Along with cheerios. He was eating some other things, too, but for the most part he still liked his milk in a sippy cup or bottle. Which was fine by John, he wasn't sure how to do this whole parenting thing anyway. Dean had seemed to just magically go from being a baby to being a toddler who was fairly self-sufficient. And early on just about everything, not that Sam wasn't mostly ahead of the game, too, it seemed. Just his luck, getting two smarter than average kids that he didn't know how to handle.

When they got back to the apartment John had decided to rent for a few weeks until he got his bearings or heard of a new hunt, he settled into a chair, surprised to see Dean coming over to him, bag of comics in hand. Sam had been put down for a nap. Blinking at his son, he let Dean crawl into his lap, and took the first comic book handed him.

"Please?" Dean asked, twisting around to look at John, hands on his father's chest to keep himself twisted around so he could look up right into his father's eyes.

"How can I ever refuse you, huh, kiddo?" John asked with a slight sigh. He was exhausted, and honestly just wanted to get some sleep. But Dean was talking. Dean was acting like a kid again. And he wasn't about to sleep through that. Carefully opening the comic, Dean shifted around again, looking down at the pages and snuggling closer to his father. John started reading, smiling a little at Dean's occasional giggle at whatever it was the Joker happened to do. The panel where the villain slipped on a plantain peel and flipped off the roof, the only thing visible was an outline and giant white eyes- and then Batman rescuing him sent Dean into peals of laughter that John found completely infectious. Laughing, too, he found it hard to keep reading, although the comic was almost done. There were quite a few more. John realized with a pang that there were six comics in total. One for every month after Mary's death. Starting on the next one, he only read one more, before saying that he needed a little extra sleep, and that Dean was welcome to join him. They both curled up on the floor and John slipped into an easy sleep, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders at the sound of his son's voice.

_(If you liked it, and you'd like to see more, leave me a review. Otherwise I won't know. :P)_


	2. Chapter 2

_(thanks as always to my beta, Mish. And as always, dedicated to L. And yet again, reviews to continue.)_

**Chapter Two: **

_It's hopelessly human both inside and out_

_A joyous occasion, no reason to doubt_

_It's easy somehow, what once was elusive is calling me now_

"I'm scared, Dad."

"Don't be scared, Dean," John rolled his eyes a little, glad Dean wasn't facing him. "I'm sure the teacher's real nice, okay?"

"I don't want to go. Why can't I stay home with Sammy?"

"Because I have to work, and so Sammy's going to daycare, because I can't take him with me."

"Are you sure you're not going on a hunt?"

"Dean," John dropped down to his knees to meet his son's serious gaze. "I am going to work at an auto shop, I'm going to be a mechanic for a while. I'm not looking for anything right now, okay? And we're pretty close to Pastor Jim, so if you need anything, you can call him, too, okay? In fact I might dump Sam with him a few times, or see if there's a church daycare or some babysitting I don't have to pay for."

"I don't need babysitting, and so when I'm home, I can watch Sam for you."

"I know, but he's a pain in the a- butt sometimes, okay?" Grimacing, he'd started swearing a lot, but he was trying not to do it in front of his son. It seemed to upset him for some reason. "It's just Kindergarten, okay? You can handle it. You know your letters, you read, and you can do some math, right?"

"I help you with it," Dean said, which was in some ways a lie, John wanted Dean to learn how it worked, and so it was a teaching device, he didn't actually need Dean's help with any of it. But he made Dean help him work out the budget for the week, made him figure out how much change would be given for how much paid, not that he made the poor kid work in decimals or half numbers. Just nice even numbers that ended in zero, or was less than ten all on its own. It wasn't like he was trying to drive Dean insane, just give him a bit of an edge. Considering he was probably a little behind, given how they'd moved around a bit, and he'd been in kindergarten a little early when Mary had been alive, and some other things. He just didn't feel like dropping his son into a situation he wasn't prepared for. Walking Dean to the classroom, John nodded to the teacher. Granny-like, so she couldn't be too horrible, he hoped. Or else she would be senile and scare the shit out of his poor kid. Her classroom plaque said Mrs. Applebee, of all the stupid names. Figuring it was some sort of requirement, he wished he could have found a younger teacher to handle his son. Someone who had a chance of keeping up.

"You must be Dean, right?" Dean turned bashful and pushed his face into his father's leg. John nudged him.

"Yes'm," Dean mumbled into blue jean.

"I'm Mrs. Applebee, and today we all brought in our pets, and I brought in my puppy, would you like to meet him? He won't bite."

"'m not scared of a dog," Dean mumbled, still mostly behind John's leg. John tried stepping away from Dean but, it didn't work so well in that Dean was hanging onto his jeans, and just moved with him.

"C'mon Dean, go with the teacher. She's nice, and if she's not, well, Sammy can spit up on her okay?" Dean giggled a little, the nervous giggle of near hysteria and just moved closer to John.

"Don't leave me."

"I'll come back in three hours to pick you up, I'm going to work, Dean, h-…I'm in my work clothes, look, it has my name on it, just a few hours, okay? Just like when… just like when your mother was…okay? It'll be like that. Only I'll come pick you up. Promise."

"Soldier's honor?" Where the hell had Dean picked that up? It was something John teasingly said to Mary.

"Yeah bud, Soldier's honor," he said, ruffling Dean's hair. Dean looked at the teacher, pushing his shoulders back and straightening up.

"What's your puppy's name?" he asked, clearly nervous.

"His name is Buster, and right now Anna is holding his leash for me. Why don't you come on inside the classroom all the way and say 'hi' to everyone?"

"I don't want to." He looked around for his dad, ready to say it was time to leave, and that he changed his mind, he didn't want to do this anymore. Opening his mouth, he found John was gone. Slipped away. Feeling his eyes well up with tears Dean sniffed, rubbing the tears away. He wasn't about to cry in front of some lady he didn't know.

"You allergic to any animals, dear?" she asked kindly.

"Nu-uh," He mumbled, confused, hoping she hadn't noticed his tears, and not connecting her question to his upset. He was five.

She nodded, "Anna why don't you bring Buster over here, and Dean, step inside the doorway at least, okay?" He nodded, rubbing at his eyes again with closed fists, before hauling in a deep breath. He could do this, prove to his dad he could do this. Anna came over, she was the little girl that everyone saw and knew when she was a woman she'd be a real stunner. Big brown eyes, natural ringlets, soft creamy skin. When she was older, she'd be the girl who turned every boy's head. Dean ignored her. They were too young to notice or care. Crouching down, he held out his hand for Buster to sniff. Slightly freaked out when the puppy bowled him over to lick his face, Dean held still. That's what his dad said to do if an animal attacked you. Mrs. Applebee stared, taking Buster's leash and hauling him off Dean gently. "You okay?"

Dean sat up, "Yeah," he answered, confused, his fingers locking into Buster's collar when the puppy came after him again. Carefully petting the puppy, Buster calmed down, and it seemed to calm Dean down, too. But he didn't laugh or react the way most kids did to puppies, no laughing, no giggling, no playing. He just kept petting the animal in slow methodical motions. She frowned a little, but let him be, handing him the end of Buster's leash. Some kids had bugs in a terrarium, others had hamsters in little cages, and someone had brought their kitten, and a few parents littered the room, ready to bring the animals home when the time came.

"Story time!" Mrs. Applebee called, and the kids all knew it was time to give their pets to their parents. "Dean why don't you bring Buster over, he'll listen, too," she said. Dean looked up.

"He's asleep," he said softly, still petting the puppy.

"Why don't you hook his leash under the table and come join us?"

"I'm okay here," he said, looking down, fingers lightly grasping at the soft brown fur. She nodded, deciding she'd need to have a talk with his father, just to make sure things were okay. Usually it was the mom who brought her kid in, crying her eyes out because her little baby was 'growing up'. Also, Dean didn't act like a normal kid. After story time he stayed crouched on the floor with Buster, refusing to join the other kids at any of the tables. He got the worksheets –the coloring kind where you had to read the words to put the color in the right shape to make a picture. She saw Dean read the directions, then entirely ignore the words on the page to color in the picture, because he saw it just fine. She had a feeling color-by-numbers would also be a waste of time for him.

"Dean, can you read okay?"

"My…my dad taught me," he said. The pause concerned her.

"Would you read me this book?" He looked at it.

"I don't like that story," he told her simply.

"Oh, so you've read it?" The boy just nodded. She tried all day to get him to communicate or at least be part of the group. Nothing worked. When all the other kids were gone, Buster had woken up, and was in a playful mood, and Dean had handed over the leash, not wanting to deal with a high-energy puppy. Wondering if he was sick, Mrs. Applebee sighed. Wondering when John would come, she saw Dean watching the clock, his lips moving, counting the seconds she realized. After ten minutes, Dean had moved into a corner, out of sight, knees up to his chest, forehead pressed down onto his knees, crying. "Dean," she said softly, realizing how he'd barely been keeping it together all day. She couldn't hear him, but he was saying something. Protocol be damned, she picked him up onto her lap. "Hey there, what's wrong? He's only a little late, work's hard, I always get home late, and my husband never worries too much. Your dad'll be here soon, I promise." Thankfully, John walked in a few minutes later.

"Dean?" The little boy was out of her hold so fast she wasn't sure where he went, until she stood up and saw him in John's arms, crying harder than he had been before. "Bad day, huh?" John asked, concerned. "What happened?"

"You were a little late, and he got really upset. He…he barely made it through the day, I think," she said softly. Not wanting to make things harder, but clearly his father wasn't hurting him, if he loved the man that much. She clearly heard Dean say something that just about broke her heart.

"I want Mom back, and I wanna go home!" John shushed him gently, rubbing his back.

"I know, but Dean, we can't, okay? There's no home left. And I can't bring your mom back, trust me, I'd do anything to bring her back," John said quietly, starting to walk around the classroom, hoping the movement would soothe his son. Glancing around, he spotted the rocking chair and sank into it, hugging Dean and gently calming him down. "I'll take you to Pastor Jim's for a little, okay? I gotta work today, I came as soon as I could, but my lunch break is at a certain time, and I still had to drive here, okay? So I'll get here a little late every day, but I'll be here, okay? And you can help Jim take care of Sammy, right? And Jim might have some snacks for you, y'never know. Just, don't drink the communion wine, it's pretty nasty." Dean looked at him, "Shh, don't tell Jim I said that, okay?" he winked. Dean grinned weakly, before pushing his face back into his father's shirt. John shushed him gently a few more times, continuing to make gentle circles between his shoulder blades.

"Mr. Winchester? I think Dean could easily skip kindergarten, if that might be easier, then he'd be at school all day. I'm assuming he can read and write?" John nodded.

"No, he'll do it the normal way. I've got to keep moving to where there's work, and it'll be easier on him with kids his own age, I'm hoping." That and he figured Dean would soon get to the point where he couldn't help him with his homework, and there was no reason to speed up that process. And many other factors of not having school all day, so if something came up, he missed less. And he doubted that the other kids would do well with a five year old in their midst. He kept rubbing his son's back, occasionally hushing him, for all he'd stopped crying.

"C'mon buddy, let's go see Jim," he said, smiling a little when Dean nodded into his shirt, pulling closer. "And you know I'll be there to pick you and Sammy up as soon as I can, right? As soon as work gets out, okay? But if I don't get you over there soon, I'm going to be late and then we'll have to move again, if I can't find another job. Can you handle that?" Dean nodded again. "That's my boy," John said quietly. Holding out his hand to Mrs. Applebee, they shook. "I'll see what I can do about him…relaxing some in the classroom."

"He was very quiet," she confessed. "Buster seems to like him okay," she added a smile.

"Dean, you wanna say goodbye to Buster?" Dean really didn't want to, so he nodded anyway, and let his father put him down, patting the puppy gently on the head and scratching under his chin. Then he moved back against John's legs, wanting to be picked up. John sighed a little, before complying with his son's silent request. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Oh, he was very polite. Very well behaved, no worries there," she smiled. Then looked at Dean, "Well I'd best get home, if I'm too late my husband will worry, and we don't want that, do we?" Dean shook his head, and she smiled. "See you tomorrow." She couldn't help but hear his quiet

"I hope not," and knew it wasn't directed at her, but at the separation he would face. Poor thing had quite a bit of terror weighing him down. Something to do with his mother, probably dead, she would guess. Considering what little she had tried not to overhear had all pointed to the woman being deceased.

Arriving at Jim's place, well the parish where he was working, Jim was letting Sam crawl around the pews, working on pulling himself up and walking from pew to pew. The man wasn't doing much, just watching. Turning around, Jim grinned at John and Dean. "Hey there, what? No hug?" he asked, considering it had become a joke between him and the older Winchester boy. Dean shook his head, green eyes lighting up in amusement. "C'mon y'rascal," Jim laughed, watching Dean slip free of his father's arms to run over, grinning, before turning his attention to his sibling, and taking Sam's hand in his to help Sammy practice walking.

"I gotta run or I'm gonna be late on the first day, I'll talk to you later, but do me a favor and keep a close eye on Dean, he seems a little off."

"He was just sick, wasn't he?"

"That was a few weeks ago. The kid's pretty tough."

"Then it seems to me like you don't have much to worry about," Jim said calmly. He smiled at John, understanding the worry. "I'll take care of him. Looks like he could use something to eat," he said, noticing the low energy levels. Generally in small children it meant they were hungry. John nodded, then jogged away to the Impala, driving back to the shop barely making it in time to clock back in.

"So, Dean, you do anything fun at school?" Dean shook his head, yawning. "Well let's get you a snack, and Sam, too, okay?"

"'kay," Dean said softly, startling Jim. He'd never really heard the boy talk before, he didn't think. Heard him cry a few times, generally involving his daddy, but an actual response. Reaching up, Dean took his hand, not even thinking about it. Jim looked down, unsure of the boy at his side. Not the same kid he was used to. Then again, things had changed, and it had been a while. Sam toddled along, holding onto his brother's hand. Jim settled them up on the countertop in the church kitchen.

"So, what'd you think you want?" Always an easy way to find out what a kid would and wouldn't eat. Dean shrugged.

"Sam'll eat cheerios, if you have any. Or Lucky Charms, he really likes those." Basically any dry cereal that wasn't a flake –flakes would cut up the insides of a baby's mouth.

"And for you? I've got cookies, if you want some." Dean shrugged. "I gotta feed you, or your dad'll cap me, okay? Pick something. Want a sandwich?"

"Peanut butter?" Dean asked hopefully, "And cookies."

"On the sandwich?" Jim asked, raising both eyebrows.

"No!" Dean said, turning the word into the laughing giggle all little children managed to pull off when they thought an adult was a total moron.

"So, a sandwich and some cookies?" he asked for clarification.

"And milk…" Dean said assertively, then flushed.

"Well you were getting that whether you wanted it or not," Jim said with a gentle smile, one that put the five year old at ease instantly. Other than how tense he was, watching Sammy on the countertop to make sure he didn't fall. Tugging his baby brother into his lap, Sam made a few jabbering sounds, before saying his brother's name.

"Dee!" the 'n' was apparently not so much part of the name.

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean said, rocking his brother a little. Sammy made happy baby burbling sounds, and clapped his hands. Dean grinned a little.

"He's funny, huh?"

"Yeah, he says 'dada', too?"

"And 'pala' for the Impala," Dean grinned. Jim laughed, but at the same time felt a little sick. Most babies got the whole mama and dada spiel, maybe a third word in there. So, Sam was smart and had three words, that was good, but, mama wasn't one of them. That, that was a little sad. Handing Dean a sandwich and some cookies on a plate, some dry cereal was in a bowl for Sam. Who, like all small children, grabbed a handful and tried to stuff it into his mouth with varying degrees of success. Dean giggled a little, unable to help himself, but he looked slightly ashamed. Jim smiled some, allowing himself to chuckle, so Dean would know it was okay. It wasn't like he was making fun of Sam, or anything. Dean settled the sandwich, cut into quarters, on the counter top before looking seriously at it.

"Everything okay?"

He nodded absently, before selecting the bottom right corner, and eating it carefully, starting with the soft crust around two edges before eating the middle. Jim was slightly surprised, he wasn't sure if Dean was like some kids who wanted the crust cut off, or not, but he supposed he had his answer. Then again the kid was hungry. Didn't take him long to eat everything on his plate and drain a glass of milk. Sam managed to eat about half the cereal, which was fine. Jim could just stick it in a cabinet for later. Dean slipped down off the counter without help, but it sure as hell startled Jim.

"I would've helped you," he pointed out, lifting Sam down, waiting until the little boy stretched his legs out to touch the floor with his toes. He gently passed Sam's hands to Dean, "Why don't you help him practice walking while I clean up, huh?" Dean nodded, apparently not going to talk again. "Try and stay where I can hear you, okay?" Plenty of people came in and out of the church. Some homeless, some not. Either way, he didn't want two little boys alone.

Usually the church was safe, but sometimes people did horrible things. Before Jim had been pastor, a few murders had taken place in the church, hence his decision to preach in that particular parish –to prevent anything like that from ever happening again. Given he knew what was out there. And the black summoning rituals fortunately hadn't worked on holy ground –amateurs- but all the same. Dean's serious green eyes met his, before the boy nodded, lifting Sam up as best he could.

"C'mon Sammy, let's go play," he whispered, kissing his brother's cheek. They disappeared from the kitchen, probably back to the sanctuary where Sam could pull himself up on the pews and play around. Jim recalled crawling around on and under pews in the church before his mother caught him and yelled at him and his brother for it. He didn't see any sacrilege in the boys feeling safe within the house of god, and would let them play as they pleased, provided they came to no harm.

When Jim heard a few crashes, he shot out of the kitchen like the hounds of hell were on his trail, hoping to god he would get there fast enough to keep John's boys from being hurt. They're fine, he frowned, before realizing that Dean's the one making the crashing sound. He'd gone ahead and flung a bible at the cross up behind the pulpit. And apparently the communion chalice. Jim sighed, shaking his head a little. John had never mentioned anything about religion along with his family, and Jim had the sinking feeling that perhaps they had been religious before the death of Dean and Sam's mother. The little boy's hand scrabbled back, searching for anything to fling, anything, before clutching the white mantle over the communion table, which then joined the chalice and bible at the foot of the cross.

"I hate you!" Dean shouted, just once, before the tears ran down his cheeks. Sam, distressed by his brother's behavior, burst into tears, and Jim wasn't sure who to handle first. Dean clearly needed to be comforted, but he'd be unable to do so until Sam was calm, but by then, Dean would be calm, too, and the moment lost. Compromising, he lifted Sam onto one hip, jostling the baby gently as he walked over to Dean, lightly touching his shoulder, the boy whipped around, anger changing to fear in his eyes.

"Hey, c'mon," Jim said, holding out his hand, offering to pick Dean up, too. Shaking his head, the little boy didn't want comfort, and clearly from the way his head hung with slumped shoulders he expected to be punished. If not by Jim, than by his father. Or perhaps lightning, from the way Dean glanced back at the cross, almost seeming hopeful. Like he needed some form of retribution. Jim bit the inside of his cheek, he'd had his own fights with god, and had often felt the comfort his faith brought him. But, he knew Dean wouldn't feel it, he was too young to understand, and Jim would be the first to admit that he often felt god was distant, for all he was ever-present. However, how did you explain that to a five year old, betrayed by the god his mother told him to believe in? To Dean, it must seem an awful lot like god had just decided to kill Mary, considering most children came away with the idea god was in control of everything, when they didn't think he was a lot like Santa. Hauling Dean up onto his other hip anyway, he noticed a stuffed monkey on the floor, one Sam instantly reached for, squirming when he saw it, too.

"That Sam's?" Dean nodded against his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. Jim heaved a sigh, telling himself that this was the reason he didn't have children of his own. _God give me patience_, he thought with a heavy heart. Bending over to get the monkey, Dean grabbed it, passing it to Sam who clutched it to his chest, thumb in mouth. "What'd you say I put Sam in the nursery, and we have a little talk, okay?" Shaking his head this time, Dean lightly pushed at Jim's shoulder. "I'm not mad at you," Jim added, always cautious. The little boy shrugged. Heading upstairs to the nursery, he heard a woman's voice. The church doors were always open. Always, even at night, considering someone always had to be there to provide refuge, that was the job of a church. Jim had organized a group of men that would take turns, in small groups, staying overnight in the church. So far more vandals and thieves than anyone else had tried to enter, but a few homeless people, and once a woman running from her abusive husband, so he felt the good outweighed the bad.

"Pastor Jim?"

"I'm heading upstairs!" he called, recognizing the voice. She sang in the church choir, and often did solo music, she generally managed to pick a song that went with his sermon for all she never knew the topic ahead of time, unless he was doing a series. He'd gone through the Seven Deadly Sins once. The Ten Commandments too, but usually he just preached on whatever he felt he was being called to.

"I'll be right up!"

"Everything all right?"

"Of course, I just want to talk to you…well, I'll come up first!" Jim laughed, shaking his head. Sam was fairly calm, and waving the monkey around and playing with it, sometimes obstructing the man's view, as he managed to set the baby into a play pen, shifting Dean to his other hip.

"I think you get to stay with me, we'll make sure Sam's still in sight, okay?" Dean nodded, eyes never leaving his brother. The intensity of his protective gaze was startling, and Jim wondered if John had any clue how much his son looked like he did. Especially when all that focusing power was directed at one thing. Or person.

"There you are," Meredith said with a laugh. "The nursery? Well who's this fellow?" she asked, not overly surprised by Dean burying his face in Jim's shirt. Shy children weren't exactly surprising. A lot were. "And there's another one, your brother?" The question was to Dean, in hopes she could get him to respond.

"This is Dean, that's his brother, Sam. I'm watching them for a friend, he's asked me about church daycare, and I might be able to call around and find someone willing to baby sit." He glanced at Dean. "You want to go play with your brother?" No response. When he started to set Dean down, he felt small hands work into his shirt, gripping it tight. "Okay," he said gently, smoothing Dean's hair.

"Well I was here to talk to you about the choir," Meredith informed him.

"Oh, everything all right?"

"Oh, of course!" laughing, she sounded a little nervous. "I was just thinking that perhaps we could do some traditional hymns, and maybe some gospel?" Jim nodded. He wasn't the choir director, but he often was the liaison between the congregation and anyone in a paid position. No wonder he already had some grey hairs.

"Gospel sounds nice, and it's been a long time since I've heard a hymn from the hymnal," at least during a choir performance, which is what they were talking about.

"A lot of the women were interested in doing it," Meredith added. He smiled, he was proud that his church wasn't filled just with white people. Or rich people. His church was a real community with people from all walks of life. A close knit community that for the most part, seemed to genuinely care for each other.

"I'd like to hear some gospel, I'll suggest it at the next staff meeting," he assured her.

"You need some help with these two?" she teased, given Jim had never seemed too comfortable around kids. Especially not the younger ones. His least favorite part of church was probably the Children's Sermon, just because he wasn't sure how to guide them to the answers he needed them to give, but it always seemed to work out in the end. And usually his biggest problem was trying not to laugh at some of the answers. But of course there always had to be some older kid who thought he was a real smart ass who'd go and screw it up for everyone. Needless to say, that kid's mom didn't let him come up for the Children's Sermon anymore. Jim was grateful.

"Dean's a good kid, aren't you buddy?" he lightly shook Dean, who refused to pull his face away from the black cloth. "He's not feeling too well, though. Just got over a bad cold, according to his father, and now he's a little homesick." Jim's understanding made Dean's shoulders shake with unshed tears. "Yeah, easy there," he said softly, smoothing the boy's hair again.

"Well," she said, concerned, and feeling uncomfortable, Meredith glanced around the room. Sam had flung his monkey out of the playpen, and was now desperately trying to get out and reclaim his stuffed animal. She laughed a little, retrieving it, and handing it to him, much to his delight. "Yeah," she said, smiling when he held out his arms to her, wanting to be picked up.

"Meredith?"

"Yeah?"

"You mind heading downstairs to the pulpit? There's a bible, mantle, and chalice lying on the ground there, and if you could put them back I would be greatly indebted to you."

"No problem, mind if I take Sammy here along for the ride?" Jim glanced down to the boy in his arms.

"Dean?" the boy just shrugged. "Well how about we go down and help them in a few minutes, okay?" another shrug. Glancing at the clock on the wall, another three hours at least before John would be back for his boys. Dean needed his father. Sam, too, but not as badly, not yet. Sitting down in the comfy stuffed chair, fabric stained by years of the kind of abuse only small children can give to furniture. For all it had been cleaned, the myriad of food stains looked fresh against the faded fabric. Jim smoothed a hand over the seat of it before settling down, pulling Dean into his lap and away from his now damp shoulder. "You need a tissue?" Jim asked, hoping the dampness was tears, not snot. Dean shook his head. "I think we need to talk."

"I don't," he mumbled sullenly. "I don't want to," he added, making damn sure Jim knew he wasn't going to be cooperative.

"Dean," Jim sighed, knowing the boy was too young for a theological debate. "You can hate God all you want, but He's still going to watch over you."

"Mom…" Dean swallowed hard, then refused to say another word.

"What Dean?" but the boy wouldn't answer. "Did your mom believe in God?"

"Angels," he corrected. "Angels watch us, not god," Dean said, in his voice the word became lower case, disdain evident. "But they weren't."

Great, Catholics. Rubbing at his temples, Jim sighed. For the most part, Christians tended to believe that only God and Jesus were the ones looking over their shoulders. Not only did Catholics believe the angels were helping out, they believed the Saints were, too, because God and Jesus were too busy to bother with them. Jim knew that was a biased simplification, but it served him and it was as charitable as he could be with the raging headache behind his eyes.

"Dean, sometimes…sometimes things happen, God doesn't promise that he'll make life perfect, in fact He promises that His children will be persecuted and punished. He promises that He will be with them, to give us strength and courage to do what we can. That's really what's so important. We never have to be alone, no matter what's trying to hurt us," Jim knew Dean wouldn't care, wouldn't understand. But Jim could still offer the comfort. He was a pastor, it was what he did. "You know about the cross?" he asked, having stood up with Dean in his arms, carrying the boy down to the sanctuary, pointing at it. "You know what it means?" Dean shook his head, because clearly his preconceived notions were wrong. "Well, I'm sure you know that there was a man, a carpenter, named Jesus? I believe that that man died on a cross like this one, so that I would never have to be alone, and so that no matter how many bad things I did, I could still go to heaven. And that I would always be forgiven by my heavenly Father, no matter what stupid thing I did."

"My Dad'll always forgive me," Dean mumbled, clearly rejecting the idea. Jim smiled.

"Yeah, and he'll always love you, too."

"And Sam!"

"And Sam," Jim chuckled, ruffling Dean's hair and eliciting a chuckle from the boy. "You okay now?" Dean nodded. "You think Sam's ready for more cheerios?" Another nod. "And let me guess…." Jim paused, eyes twinkling, before he gently tickled Dean. "You want some cookies," he asked, Dean giggling and breathless, unable to answer. Letting the boy slip down to the floor to walk on his own, he ran over to Meredith and Sam, taking his brother almost possessively from the young woman, looking down his freckled nose at her, before looking over his sibling. She took it in stride, laughing ruefully, and promising that she'd let no harm come to the babe.

"I'll see you Sunday, Pastor."

"Of course, thanks for your help."

"Always. And Cindy wants to bring you another casserole," seeing the vague pain in Jim's face at the mere thought, "I was wondering if I should tell her not to bother?"

"I wouldn't want her to trouble herself," he said faintly. "In fact, you could tell her some canned goods for the Pastor's Pantry wouldn't go amiss. Considering when we do have the homeless staying with us, it's always been a point of pride that I've had food to offer them."

"I'll let her know," Meredith laughed, not at all surprised by the slight greenish color the man had turned. She felt she would be lucky to be that color after having tasted one of Cindy's infamous casseroles. They were certainly enough to put the fear of God into any unsuspecting fellow. "Will these two handsome young men be around for a while?"

"Until their father finds work somewhere else," Jim said.

"Then I'd better tell her to bring some cookies, too. What kind?"

"Dean didn't seem to mind the chocolate chip ones. And Sammy here might like some animal crackers," Jim said, fully aware that the church ran on the charity of its congregation. And there were quite a few children who came regularly with their parents who wouldn't find animal crackers any chore to eat, much less chocolate chip cookies. Knowing what was expected of him, he smiled, "God's peace be with you," he intoned.

"And you."

"Now go, serve the Risen Christ." She nodded once, and turned on her heel to walk down the aisle and disappear through the doors. Watching as Dean heaved Sam into his arms, trying to settle his baby brother on his hip, he was too small for it to work that well, but he still tried. And he was able to walk without falling until he reached the kitchen, Jim hovering at his side in case he did trip.

"I can take care of my brother," Dean pouted, green eyes meeting Jim's for just a second.

"I can see that," Jim told him dryly. Dean flushed unhappily. "And you're doing a good job of it," he tried to repair the damage he'd unwittingly done. Another hour before he could expect to see John. "How about dinner, instead of just cookies?"

"Not casserole," Dean burst out, unexpectedly. Apparently not only had he been listening, but he could read body language well.

"No," Jim laughed, "not casserole." Not even the alley strays had been willing to come near the stuff. In fact, the pastor was fairly sure that the concoction wasn't biodegradable either. "I was thinking we have some chicken strips, or fish sticks. You got a preference?"

"Chicken."

"Alrighty then."

"You're not gonna bless the chicken, are you?" came the impudent question.

"No, I'm not. I'm going to bless the meal, and give thanks."

"Why?"

"Don't you thank your father when he provides you with food?"

"Guess so."

"Well, I thank mine."

"But those people gave you food," Dean protested, Sam in a highchair, making a mess out of his cheerios and animal crackers. Jim didn't have any baby food, and Sam had shown no signs of wanting a bottle. Just his monkey and the dry cereal. According to the one year old, animal crackers were for chewing on, then smashing. Which was fine. He wasn't crying, and as long as he wasn't, he could just about whatever he wanted. Jim put the food on the small table left out in the side room of the church, adjoined to the kitchen, it was where the church had special dinners, breakfasts, or meetings. Along with the occasional auction for the youth missions and other public functions like that.

"And they wouldn't have given me the food if it wasn't for God, and they still don't have to, other than the goodwill in their hearts because God has called on them to do so. Now, you don't have to believe, but you can still close your eyes and bow your head," Jim told him, waiting until Dean had, before clasping his hands and bowing his own head with closed eyes. His prayer was short and to the point. "I thank You for the food on our table, and the ability to spend time with these two boys, and being able to help their father, John. Amen." Dean seemed oddly touched by the prayer, and ate quietly, struggling slightly with his fork and knife before he noted Jim eating the strips with his fingers like it was a chicken nugget. Giggling a little, the boy happily imitated the priest. Jim smiled, taking another bite of chicken. He had figured that this would be easiest.

John came in just as they were finishing their meal. "Hey," he said quietly.

"Dad!" Dean cannoned into his father, happy to see him, and Sammy visibly perked up.

"Hey Dean," he groaned as he picked up Dean, his lower back already aching. "Hey Sam," he lightly caressed the baby's cheek before leaning over to kiss Sam's forehead. "Thanks Jim."

"No problem. They're great kids."

"Yeah, they are."

"Look, I can call around tomorrow, see anyone who's willing to baby sit, I figure if I can handle it, anyone can," Jim laughed.

"I want to come here," Dean said suddenly, looking almost upset. Jim frowned, but wasn't too concerned.

"Well, I'm sure they wouldn't mind staying here, if that's easier."

"No, you."

John raised his eyebrows. "Dean, behave," he said gently. "I'll talk to him," he told Jim assuredly, "it'll be fine. I've really appreciated your help," he added.

"It was no real trouble. I didn't do boring paperwork, I have no complaints."

"Pastors have to do paperwork?"

"Like you would not believe," Jim laughed.

"Are you even allowed to complain?"

"I'm human."

"Well, you'd better ask to be blessed for just existing, because you're screwed," John laughed, Dean's eyes drooping shut. "I'm guessing someone didn't take a nap?"

"Sam did for a while." Jim's eyebrows raised, "Dean, too?"

"Usually."

"Learn something new every day. He's done great, though. I'll keep that in mind next time I'm babysitting."

"Alright, I'll see you around. I can drop Sam off with you again, while I work?"

"And Dean, too, after school."

"Thank you."

"Try thanking God sometimes." John rolled his eyes at Jim's words, but wasn't about to jeopardize his friendship with this man.

"Maybe some day," John said calmly. He had learned nothing was impossible.

"Peace," Dean mumbled sleepily, and Jim smiled.

"Peace be with you," he said softly, reaching a hand out to rest his palm against Dean's head for a matter of seconds. Dean snuggled deeper into his father's chest with a soft sigh, finally asleep.

"Thanks for wearing them out for me," John laughed as he lifted Sam, the baby's fingers still tightly clenching his monkey's arm as his eyelids started to droop, eyelashes almost touching his chubby cheeks. He left the church with a lighter heart than the one he had entered with.

At the grungy apartment they were staying in, John changed his boys into pajamas and put them to bed, Dean barely moved the entire time other than a soft moan of irritation when John tried to put him down. So, trying to put Sam to bed while still holding Dean made things a little more difficult, but John figured if it meant he had his boy back, then fine. A few inconveniences weren't going to ruin his life. Keeping Dean snug against his chest, John kicked off his shoes and sank into the bed with a wary glance at his youngest son, wondering if he would be forced to seek refuge on the floor again. Sam was snuggled up to his monkey, and automatically gravitated towards his father and brother in his sleep.

When John woke up to take Dean to school and drop Sam off, he found Dean already awake, and Sam snuggled up against his chest. "Dean?" Glancing around, he saw his boy in front of the small stove, a pan on top of one of the burners, fighting back concern, clearly his son was fine. And, taking a sniff, he noted that whatever it was the boy was doing, it smelled good. "Eggs?" he asked, leaving Sam in the bed, they had some spare time.

"You make them wrong," Dean informed him, then flushed.

"Yeah, guess I do," he chuckled.

"So what'd I do wrong yesterday?"

"You forgot to put milk in them. And salt and pepper."

"Dean, I put salt and pepper in after."

"So?" forcing back a laugh, John just nodded.

"Why don't I get you a plate or something?" he asked.

"I already ate. Sam's bottle is ready, and I put cheerios out for him," Dean said, green eyes watchful, wondering about his father's reaction. John frowned slightly, then saw his boy start to wilt, and so he smiled.

"Good job, you do a damn fine job taking care of Sammy'n me. Thanks kiddo," he said, ruffling the honey brown hair. "Time for me to go get Sam up, then." He saw a flash of pearly whites in the dim lighting, and knew that Dean didn't envy him the task. But the muchkin had to eat before John took him to Jim's; it wasn't fair to give a single man a hungry baby in the morning when you're asking him to do you a favor.

Dropping Dean off at school had proven harder than the last time, given John stuck around a few minutes longer, long enough to see how Dean's eyes welled with tears at the thought of abandonment. Instead of leaving like he'd planned, he crouched down and swept Dean up into a hug. "I'll be back, same time as last time, okay? As soon as my lunch break starts, I'll be here, and I'll take you to Jim, then I've got to get back to work." And maybe find time to eat, this time around. Working all day on an empty stomach had not been the easiest of things. Especially given how crappy breakfast had been. At least now he'd had a decent one, thanks to his five year old. Of all the embarrassing… "Don't drive the teacher insane, okay?"

"Promise."

"Yeah, me too," John laughed, kissing the top of his head before letting him down again. Hopefully the boy would open up a little, maybe make a few friends. At least learn some names or something. Adjust better, he hoped.

Mrs. Applebee glanced at Dean, "Hey there, c'mon in all the way, we're going to start out reading. And for everyone who can read, we're going to take turns. Would you help me out, and start first?" His eyes went perfectly round, and she saw his intent to reject the idea. "Maybe last, then?" she pleaded a little. He shrugged. "Well, if you want to read earlier, you can just raise your hand for a turn.

Once all the children were settled onto the rug, she read the first few sentences, and the book was passed around for kids to read from. After about halfway through, she noted Dean was clenching his jaw. When she asked who wanted to read next, he raised his hand, a determined glint in his eyes. The book was passed over to him.

"Dean, since we're running out of time, why don't you read a whole paragraph for us?" She hoped she wasn't making a mistake, because if his reading was as shaky as the other children she had just set herself up for some serious torment. Along with allowing the other children to get fidgety, which would probably upset the boy. Instead, he read in a clear carrying voice, only messing up two of the words when he started to read a little too fast. And even then, they were words she didn't expect a kindergartener to say right the first time, just sounding it out. He didn't do voices like some of the kids had tried to, but he had a calm reading cadence that settled the more restless children. She realized he probably read to his baby brother. He'd mentioned something about one the day before when he'd been crying. And his father didn't seem the type to skimp out on the more fatherly activities, she figured.

There was something too congenial about the man for her to expect any less. Unless he was some sort of con-artist. She snorted at the thought. "Thank you, Dean, I'll finish the rest," she said, when he paused to look at her, wondering if he should go on. Most kids would have just kept going, but he seemed to even know what a paragraph was.

First recess she noted he stayed close to the building door, when she walked out of the hall to get some lunch for herself. It was too early to be technically be lunch, so she would just say it was a late breakfast. He was still standing outside of the building, clearly wishing he could go inside. She smiled a little, running a hand through graying hair. "Dean, why don't you come on inside?" she asked. He followed her, face almost unreadable, except for his eyes. The gratitude hurt, it was so strong. He was so quiet. "You hungry?"  
"Pastor Jim'll make me lunch when I get to the church," he informed her, not answering the question the way she wanted. Glancing at him, the answer was almost adult in nature, not to mention skilled in the level of avoidance. "And Sammy, too," he added, suddenly earnest and five years old again.

"Alright. Dean, why don't you go out and play with the other kids, don't you need exercise like everyone else?"

"I play with Sam," Dean said, tempted to add more, she noticed. Not realizing he was tempted to tell her that he sometimes ran with his father on weekends, and usually ended up carried after a bit, or that he tried to do pushups, too, to be like his dad. And that he could do twenty five military push ups, not the sissy shit, but the real ones. Back straight and everything. He didn't like crunches because he couldn't keep his feet on the floor, but he could sit on his dad's to make sure that John could do them proper, for all Dean's weight wasn't doing much to make a difference. Or that he knew how to do a pull up, because he'd asked, and at the park they had some free standing bars. He could do four. But he had to kick his legs on the last one to cheat a little. And that he knew the military only required you to be able to do three.

But he didn't want to be a soldier.

"Well I'm sure he wears you out good, huh?"

Dean laughed a little, clearly relieved at the change in topic. "He's a year old, and I read to him a lot." Something in his face darkened at that. "Usually stuff out of the newspaper, or my comic books, sometimes Dad reads to us both, out of the comics," he smiled happily.

When John walked into the door to pick up his son, he didn't expect to see his boy in the teacher's lap. Forget letting her read to him, and sometimes interjecting with a comment about the picture, or how he thought the word was, and wanted to know why it was said the way the teacher had pronounced it. They seemed to be getting along okay, which was comforting to John. But at his boots on the tile, Dean's head snapped up, and he was out of Mrs. Applebee's lap and across the room, thudding into John's legs so fast that John could have sworn he didn't even see Dean move. He hadn't even had a chance to hold out his arms or anything.

"Hey there," he said, hoisting his boy up to his hip and ruffling his hair. "School better today?"

"A little," he said cautiously. "But I don't want to have to come back," he mumbled, pushing his face into his father's blue work jacket.

"Well that's too bad, because you know you have to."

"Why?"

"Don't you like your teacher?"

"She's okay," Dean grumbled, not willing to have this conversation. John glanced at her, smiling and waving, before turning on his heel to carry Dean out to the Impala. Letting Dean in the front seat for once, he wanted to talk to his boy.

"You have to go to school."

"I don't like it. I don't want to go anymore."

"Dean, if you don't go to school, there are people out there, real people, Dean, who will take you away from me. And away from Sam, they might even take Sam away from me, and they will give you and your brother to a different family. You two might never see each other again." Realizing his words were a bit too harsh only when Dean bit back tears and stifled a sob, John mentally kicked himself. Hard. Biting back a few curses, John reached out, taking Dean's hand and squeezing it tightly. "But we won't let that happen, okay? You'll go to school, right?"

"Yeah," the quavering in his voice barely hidden. But he was trying, and John felt a surge of pride. Most people thought Dean was older, and just small for his age. Sometimes John thought that was a bad thing, and other times, times like these, he was grateful that it was true. Dean was a hell of a tough kid. And he did right by his family. John just hoped he could do right by Dean.

_(reviews please, that is if you'd like more.)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry for taking forever. I didn't realise this was already written. I have no idea if it's beta'd or not it's been so long. So, have fun with it, sorry about taking so long. I'm looking for any other updates lying around that I didn't know about. _

**Chapter 3: **

_I am waiting, I am patiently doing nothing, in a reverie _

_Climbing higher, seeing everything, interacting slowly spiraling_

Dean allowed Sam to crawl into his lap before they both went down the slide together, Sam shrieking with fear and laughter, Dean allowing a smile to twist his lips before tightening his arms around Sammy's middle so at the end of the slide he wouldn't lose his sibling, barely able to keep his own feet. Letting Sam down, another kid didn't bother to wait, and slid down the slide, feet hitting Dean in the back and sending him forward, hard. Sam howled in rage, seeing his big brother knocked over. Dean pulled himself up, tugging his legs up to his chest before pushing down and sending his body upwards. Twisting to look at the kid, the typical playground bully. Dean was six, a little small for his age, but plenty strong. Sam was a little big for his two years, but he wasn't very chubby, so he looked even older. But Dean was still bigger, and would be for a long time.

"Watch it," Bully said. Dean raised a cold eyebrow.

"Kiss my ass," Dean spat, his baby face too soft for the harshness of the words or the hate in his green eyes. "Sam, watch out," Dean pulled himself into a fighting stance. He was probably forty pounds lighter than the boy in front of him, not to mention a good four inches shorter. But Dean had one major advantage, all his weight was hardened muscle, not soft fat. Bully's eyes went round, shocked at the cursing. It wasn't exactly common among small children, and he figured Dean was about five, his brother maybe three.

"Guess your mom didn't teach you any manners, huh?"

Dean's nostrils flared, and he launched himself into the other boy without a second thought, his father getting there just in time to catch Dean's collar and swing him away before he ever made contact.

"Dean, what the hell?" John asked, lips close to his boy's ear. "C'mon Sam, lets go over to the swings, okay?" Sam's hand reached up for his father's, eyes looking up in hopes of catching Dean's, but Dean's face was pressed against his father's leather jacket. "Sam why don't you practice swinging a little bit? Dean'll come push you in a few minutes, okay?"

"Yes sir," and he toddled off to the swings, before looking back. John sighed, putting Dean down to pull Sam into the swing and give him a starting push. Ruffling the mop of curly brown hair, he went over to Dean, lifting him up again. The boy hadn't moved, eyes down at his shoes. Walking over to the park bench, John sat down, settling Dean on his lap where he couldn't escape. Looking at the anger in every line of the little boy's body, John knew he was anything but repentant.

"You wanna tell me what happened?"

"I was still in the way when he came down the slide."

"No, I saw that," John had started moving the second he saw it happen. "What'd he say to you?" It wasn't a request.

"Said Mom didn't teach me any manners," his son's breathing got harsher as he fought back tears.

"You didn't…Dean." John pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head. "You've done your mother proud, Dean. And you always will. You hear me? You ignore that kid, he's not worth your time, okay? Don't even bother to look at him, just look through him. People like that are scum."

"Yes sir."

"Why don't you go push Sammy on the swing, okay?"

"Yes sir."

John ran a hand through his unruly dark hair, sighing. Dean went through phases, it seemed like. Sometimes he was a normal kid, and other times… he was just angry all the time at everyone, and then other times he was unresponsive and empty. He didn't know how to handle his boy. One thing always remained the same; Dean was always taking care of Sam. It was a burden he'd pulled onto his own shoulders, and John hated to admit that he was glad, because he couldn't handle it, and didn't have the time to take it back from Dean.

Watching the boys, he heard Dean's peal of laughter, accompanied in a loose harmony by Sam's higher giggle. There was something called an 'underdog' that Sam loved, it involved pulling the swing back as far as one could, and then running with it the whole way under, before shoving hard with one's arms to get that extra bit of height. Dean usually only did it when Sam was in the baby swing, but Sam was big enough to hold on and things were okay. They looked happy. Like normal kids. So long as they were alone.

Dean had an actual friend in first grade, a girl Dean called Mili for whatever reason, who had a baby sister that Sam played well with. Mainly because the little girl was only a couple months younger than he was, and he was fairly patient. Mili's mom was often happy to watch over the boys a couple hours if John needed somewhere to dump them. He felt a little guilty that he never had time to offer to watch Mili and Tess, but Mrs. Engel seemed to understand that a single father trying to work several jobs didn't have a lot of time. But, his boys seemed happy, and he killed himself to make sure they had everything they needed.

His watch beeped, an hour had gone by. "Dean!" The boy's head snapped around, smile slipping away from his face like water, the corners of his mouth sliding down, lips pursing. Dean nodded, slowing Sam's swing, despite the two-year-old's vehement protests. Dean leaned closer to Sammy, whispering something, John could see his jaw work, and then Sam slipped down from the swing without another word. Taking his hand, Dean led his baby brother to John, green eyes serious, waiting for orders. Wondering when he'd become a drill sergeant instead of a father, John ran his hand through his hair again, tugging at it lightly when he reached the back of his head.

"Time to go on back, I've got to get to work, and I don't want you guys out here alone."

"You don't trust me," Dean accused.

"No, I don't trust them, I don't trust boys like the one that knocked you over. I know you can handle yourself Dean, and I know you can take care of Sam. You remember that talk we had about why you have to go to school? This is the same stuff, Dean, you know that. I can't leave you here alone."

"Can we go to Mili's?"

Eyes raised for patience, he saw the jut of his son's jaw and was reminded instantly of Mary.

"You were there yesterday, and you have homework, if I recall," John said, and started walking. The conversation was over if Dean didn't move. John didn't remember ever having to spank Dean, the threat was usually sufficient, but he wasn't in the mood to be making threats. "Now let's go."

"I can do homework at Mili's," he mumbled, savagely kicking a rock. John knew Dean was bored in classes, knew they were too simple and were things he already knew, and they moved too slowly. But he was afraid that if he moved his boy up a grade with all the moving around that Dean would fall behind. Although when he was with the less capable teachers was when he used up all that bored energy to wreak havoc. Pinching the bridge of his nose, John heaved a sigh. Damnit kid. He longed for the days when Dean had been a little more complacent and a little less vocal. Not that he wanted his son to go back to that vegetative state where he only responded to Sammy crying. That had been sheer torture.

"Well, you spend a lot of time there, and I don't like having to ask Mili's mom to always been watching out for you guys. It isn't fair because I can't do the same thing and watch Mili and Tess," John thought that was reasonable, Dean preferred to operate on a system of checks and balances. Preferred to believe that justice was a real tangible thing, and that fairness was possible. John didn't want to have to tell Dean that the world was arbitrary, and it was people who made it either fair or unfair, and the majority was going to do their best to make it unfair and in their favor. But how to does someone explain that to a six year old, and why should they? Children were supposed to hope and dream and aspire for more than their parents could give them, it was what made the world keep turning.

"Sam likes having people to play with," Dean huffed, turning it into Sam's problem, because Dean knew how to play John. If he could twist something to make it about Sam, Sam whom John would do anything for, then he could usually win the argument. Not this time, because John knew it was about Dean.

"He has you." Sometimes, John felt he could see the weight crushing those young shoulders, see his words adding to it, and wished he could call those same words back to lighten the burden. But he didn't know how. And he was sorry.

"Sometimes I don't think I'm good enough."

Blinking, John wondered if he'd heard it, or just imagined it. Looking at Dean, whose eyes were down on his battered sneakers, John frowned. Afraid that if he was only hearing things, then he would look stupid in front of his son, but just as scared that if he said nothing, he risked losing the boy entirely.

"I don't know what Sam would do without you, and I'm just glad that I have you to help me with him," John compromised. It could be completely random, or it could be an answer to an almost silent plea. Begging for the burden to be lifted and taken away, but at the same time terrified of the rejection that failure would bring. John gripped Dean's shoulder for a few moments. Sam was ensconced firmly in the shelter of his arm, knees pressed tight into his sides while he held the boy against his hip. The toddler was quiet, as if sensing the seriousness of the moment and refusing to break it. Although, usually he was perfectly happy to break into moments like these just to make Dean smile to break the tension he felt. Or when he suddenly burst into crocodile tears shattering the hostility between father and son; allowing either his father or brother to comfort him, just so long as their attention was no longer directed at each other.

When they reached the, for lack of a better term, house they were staying in, Dean sighed. John didn't blame the boy for not wanting to come back here. The carpet stank, the walls were stained with water and mildew, the water sometimes ran hot or cold, depending. It creaked abominably, and sometimes John wondered if it was going to crash down on their heads in the night. So far it hadn't, and at least the sheets were clean and fresh, and he'd done his best to air out the ratty mattress. But, the sooner they moved on the better. He had a feeling that while Dean would protest the loss of his friend, he would find that a better housing situation might be fair compensation. Although he knew it wouldn't be. Dean rarely bothered to make friends, not seeing any point. The fact he had attached himself to Mili told John that the break would be hard, and Dean might not try ever again.

When Mili's mother called, asking if Dean and Sam could come over, because Mili and Tess were asking, the triumphant look Dean shot him when they climbed into the car annoyed John. But he understood the request, and he was fairly sure he had caught wind of a black dog, and wanted to check it out. With Dean and Sam cared for, John was free to do as he pleased, or was fated.

Dropping them off, John waved at Mili before twisting to the back to look at his boys. "Behave yourselves, you hear me?" he asked, waiting until Dean nodded, Sam had nodded eagerly, and didn't stop until Dean was dragging him from the car. The two of them dashed up the walk and to Mili, Dean already chattering animatedly to the little girl as she responded by taking his and Sam's hands and leading them in, chattering right back.

"C'mon, let's go to the tree house," Mili tugged on Dean a little, who grinned, looking over at Sam first. "He can come, Tess can't, she's too small."

"They're the same age," Dean told her, not understanding at all.

"She's smaller than Sam, 'cause she's a girl," Mili rolled her eyes at her friend, tugging him out of the house after a quick 'hello' in regards to her mother, one Dean echoed before following. It was a small, nice, tree house, as far as tree houses went, of course. It was painted blue, and built by a carpenter father. There was even a little window in the side facing the house. A small rope ladder was the way up, although it had been secured at the ground to prevent it from being able to throw small children free of it and back onto the lawn. The inside had old swatches of rug from when the actual house was built, along with a few sample tiles left behind by the builders. The walls were painted white, again with leftovers from the construction of the large house. A small table, and two chairs rested inside, as of there wasn't room for much else. The door wasn't a true one, having no knob, and even then on the inside of it was a brightly colored shower curtain to protect the inside from rain.

"We shoulda brought snacks," Mili mumbled, shrugging apologetically at Dean.

"I'm not hungry," he lied, he was always hungry. He just never ate. There was never time, or else John needed it more, or Sam did, now that he was eating things beyond milk and cheerios. It was a blessing and a curse, because now Dean had to share the foods he generally considered his own, and sometimes he felt that it didn't leave him enough. There would be, and could be, if he but had the courage to ask. "Where's Sam?" Dean asked suddenly, twisting around to realize his brother hadn't followed them. Pressing his small face against the window, he peered out, seeing his brother and Tess in the sandbox, clearly trying to make a mound of it, maybe using up all the sand. He idly wondered how far they would get, and then felt the urge to join them.

Instead, he settled himself down on the floor, his backpack still on his shoulders. "You get homework, too?" he asked.

"It's under the table, I don't wanna do it," Mili shrugged. Dean twisted a few strands of his hair, tugging gently at them, and wondered if they would have time to cut it.

"My dad gets mad when I don't do it," Dean commented absently. He was tired, and he was afraid. Knowing that his father was leaving them, to do something, he didn't know what, but he knew it was dangerous. Their dad always did dangerous things. Yawning a little bit, he shrugged at Mili. "We could go down for cookies," he offered. She shrugged back at him before nodding.

"Then we'll bring them back here," she added, and Dean nodded. He could probably do his homework and maybe have a cookie or two. Something to keep his stomach busy for at least a little while. Mili went down first, and then Dean followed. Sam was busy with Tess, still, and was aiding her in flinging the sand as far as they could. Dean rolled his eyes a little, but allowed Mili to tug him towards the house. It was nicer inside, nicer than any house Dean remembered. Other than he was sure that his house with his mom had been perfect. But when he thought about it, all he could see was Mary on the ceiling with the house covered in fire and smoke. Smell the burning wood and flesh, hear the sirens and crackling as the flames devoured everything he knew. Shaking his head a little, he smiled at Mrs. Engel a little.

"Mo-om," Mili started, "Can we have some cookies?"

"Please," Dean added, figuring a little extra buttering up never hurt anyone. It often worked with his father.

"Not until you two have had something healthy to eat," she told them calmly. Mili made a face, but Dean didn't care. Last time had been apples and peanut butter, which was amazing. "What'd you two want?"

Dean and Mili looked at each other for a few seconds, before chorusing "Apples and peanut butter!" before dissolving into giggle fits. Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Engel started cutting up the apples. She knew Dean liked to see the 'star' inside, so she cut them that way, and slathered peanut butter on the apple. It wasn't like the kids cared if they had it on their faces and hands. They generally just laughed at each other. One time it had turned into a peanut butter war, and Dean had ended up with the stuff in his hair, and Mili had had it smeared across her forehead. At that point, it had started raining, and she'd kicked them out to go get 'clean' and the two had found a mud patch. Which had made things worse. Mrs. Engel had ended up stuffing them in separate bath tubs and running a quick load of laundry. When John had come to pick his boys up, Dean's hair had still been wet, and he'd still been laughing helplessly along with Mili.

Passing them the snacks on the cheap plastic plates, "Why don't you go get Sam and Tess for snacks, too?" she suggested. Dean was out the door in seconds, his plate on the counter top. He was a little too sensitive about Sam, and Mrs. Engel had a feeling he would think she was implying he was neglecting his sibling.

Sam toddled in, glancing back at Tess who was a little less stable on her feet than he was. Dean kept an eye on Sam, and Tess, too. Thankful Mili didn't seem to feel the need to be mother to Tess, Mrs. Engel sighed a little, running a hand through her curly red hair. Dean hauled himself up onto the chair using the countertop. The chairs were extra tall so that they fit the island/countertop deal in the middle of the kitchen. It was in the way more often than not, but sometimes it came in handy. Like an easy cleaning surface after snack time for the kids. Mili crawled up, and Dean reached out to grab the chair when it wobbled. It always did that, and so far had never fallen, but the little boy was overly-cautious about everything. Sam and Tess generally ate on the floor, considering the island only sat two. And the table was for dinner, and that was about all it was good for.

As per usual, Dean was the first one to finish his food, and Mrs. Engel felt that if she timed it, he would beat his previous record every time. Wondering if he got enough food at home, he didn't look like he was hurting for meals. Although he was a growing boy, and did need extra. She might pack him and Sam a little bag of snacks or something for later. If Dean stuck it into his backpack John wouldn't have to know, or feel guilty about it.

"You two start your homework?"

"I don't feel like doing it," Mili said stoutly, before stuffing more apple into her mouth. Dean nodded his head vigorously.

"If you don't do it, no cookies. Why don't you go get it, and bring it in here and I'll help."

"No cookies?" Dean asked, looking at Mili in shock. He'd been promised cookies. Mili giggled at his expression, and he softened his features into a teasing grin. He smiled impishly at Mrs. Engel, and slid off his chair, thanking her for the apples, to race outside and gather up the homework. He'd do just about anything for home made cookies. Hauling his backpack in, and Mili's books in his arms, he dumped them on the floor, showing his distaste for the task at hand.

"I'm baking fresh cookies, and Dean, you get to take some home with you, make sure you share some with your dad, okay?"

"Do I gotta?" he asked, grinning at Sam a little.

"Yes, you do, and it's 'do I have to'," she corrected gently. The boy seemed to have something against the English language. She put out a plate of cookies for the kids to divvy up and share. They were still soft, being only a few days old. She could never seem to make cookies last more than three or four days at the most. Usually it was two if she was lucky. Dean choked out a muffled thanks around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie, as he frowned at a math problem he was working out. When he looked over at what Mili was doing, he frowned again.

"You're doing it wrong," he told her quietly.

"Am not."

"Are so," he told her, shifting his paper to look at hers, and then working the problem differently on her paper. "See, it doesn't work how you did it," he told her impatiently. Mrs. Engel let them argue, Dean would almost always back down if it came to a real argument, but Mili generally had the sense to let him help her with math, because he was the one who was bad with spelling. Which was funny because he read so well. But Dean hated the vocabulary words. He could never remember how to spell any of them, but Mili could usually come up with some word pairing so he could remember better. Like 'stoic' could be 'stow it' so he could remember the sounds easier. For all the spelling was completely off, word association helped. And then he also remembered it was kind of like 'stowing one's feelings away' at least. It was a rough definition, but it did help. After a few more minutes of arguing, Dean took the paper to Mrs. Engel, wanting to know who had the right answer. He did, and he looked at Mili triumphantly. And then she stole one of 'his' cookies.

"Hey now!" feeling it time to step in, Mrs. Engel rolled her eyes a little, "Mili don't make me send you to your room. You hear me?" her daughter nodded, and she smiled a little. She started working the dough, and Dean came over.

"Can I help?"

"Is your homework done?"

"It's not due until later," he pointed out. "I can do it at home."

"And what will your father say if it's not done?"

Dean dropped his eyes and didn't respond.

"How about you get the math done, and then you can take a short break to help me? Then the English homework, alright?"

"Yes ma'am," he said, racing back to his homework to work it as quickly as he could.

"And you make sure you do them all right!" she called over her shoulder. He didn't even answer he was so engrossed in finishing as fast as he could.

_please review. Please? I'm in Spain, and it should be awesome, but they're feeding us rotten fruit, and all sorts of other bad things and I'm starving to death. I've only been here a week and my shorts are getting too big. _


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